Baghdad Reborn

On March 19, 2003, my immediate and extended family gathered in the kitchen of my childhood home in Baghdad and made a collective decision to relocate to Northern Iraq until the war and the chaos were over. Little did I know that the Baghdad I once knew would never be the same. Completely isolated from the rest of the world and exposed only to censored media, we did not know what was happening between the United States and Iraq at that point. In the face of this uncertainty, we packed our bags with the essentials and left for our ancestral village in the North.

Many other families who had left Baghdad, desperate for any kind of refuge, stayed in churches and monasteries. Unable to find shelter, my family was left with no choice but to break into a house. Once the residents returned, we explained our situation, upon which we were given the keys. With our food and bedding donated by the village community, 21 of us stayed in the one-room house. Although warmed by this generosity, we were still scared and uncertain about the future. As we tuned into the radio on our first night in the village, we learned of the first air strike attack on the presidential palaces in Baghdad. We continued to follow the news about the situation in Baghdad. As terrifying as the prospect of moving back was, my parents were increasingly worried about running out of money and food, which would hasten our return to a chaotic Baghdad. At 13, I was completely uninterested in politics and was more preoccupied with the fact that school was out before midterms and that our life in the village — with its limited access to electricity and running water — was notably different from that in Baghdad.

We weren’t completely sure what to expect when we finally made the decision to return to Baghdad. Our desire to put the rumors to rest and the drying up of our resources were the two main reasons we decided to return. We shared a bus with other families returning to Baghdad, and as we took in the sights of our ravaged city, I could sense everyone’s distress. The damage was everywhere. It was in the empty streets, the destroyed buildings, and the abandoned schools. As we drove along, I saw that the well-known market in the Mansour neighborhood had been razed. I realized at that moment the impact of the war and the immensity of such violence. Right then I truly started wondering about my school, my friends, and my house.

Life in Baghdad after the U.S. invasion became all about the essentials. We were introduced to a new vocabulary — “curfew,” “military checkpoints,” “electricity generators,” “ice shops,” and more. Classes resumed, but a lot of my friends dropped out because there were a constant fears of bombings near schools or being caught in the crossfire. Nobody left home unless it was absolutely necessary. In our absence, my father had lost his business; what had been his treasured mechanics workshop had been taken over and transformed into an armed militia base. National electricity generators had been destroyed, so there was no electricity for days, sometimes weeks. Professors, doctors, lawyers, and many other intellectuals were targeted and threatened simply for stating their political views. My history teacher was shot for that very reason, and the dean of students at my school was killed for being a former member of the Ba’ath party. One of my friends died in a church bombing during a Sunday mass, and another died from a street bomb in the famous Abu Nuwas Street in Baghdad. The corruption and violence in postwar Iraq motivated my desire to continue my education elsewhere, a place where I could go to school and pursue my goals without a constant fear for my life.

In October 2009, I joined the Iraqi Student Project (ISP) in order to pursue my education in the United States. ISP is a program that helps Iraqi students who cannot finish their college education in Iraq, providing an opportunity for them to continue their education in the United States. It was through this program that I applied to Grinnell and received a generous scholarship through the Iraqi Student Project. I would have never been able to attend Grinnell without such a scholarship. At Grinnell I chose my major, my course, and my schedule, something inconceivable in Iraq.

At Grinnell, my interest in social justice was nourished, and I was able to pursue internships and volunteer work that helped me grow more confident about my ability to make a change in my home country. During the summer after my first year, I interned at Stony Point Center in New York, where I volunteered on large-scale organic farms and participated in educational workshops on issues such as food justice, interfaith dialogue, Israel-Palestine conflict, and immigration. Last summer, I interned in AMIDEAST (America-Mideast Educational and Training Services) in Tunisia, a nonprofit that is engaged in international education and development. I participated in two Grinnell Alternative Break service trips during which I helped in reconstruction in New Orleans and worked directly with newly arrived refugees in St. Louis. I am coleading another service trip to Chicago to work with refugees and war victims this spring. These positive changes shaped my interest in nongovernmental organization and nonprofit work as a career choice. Growing up in Iraq forced a desire in me to become more involved in exploring a peaceful change in my country.